’Tis thus in the springtime of life, oh! how oft
Ambition’s full tide clearly flows,
And the winds, half oppressed with perfume, breathe so soft
Till the broad summer sun deeply glows.
Then the rivulet shrinks in its cold, flinty bed,
And the winds, with their doleful refrain,
Drift the sere, withered leaves of fond hopes that are dead,
And mourn o’er life’s desolate plain.
They But Dream Who Believe.
THEY but dream who believe that the heart can be ever
Found true in its fervent devotion,
That naught in the noon-tide of youth can e’er sever
The bonds of enchanting emotion;
For stern Fate commands—and the day-star grows pale,
And the angels weep softly above,
And we hear, mid the sound of a low, broken wail,
“Oh, what is more faithless than love?”
But some heart must break, though the world still moves on,
Unmindful of smiles and of tears;
And some bosom must throb with the light of life gone,
Alone through the desolate years!
The Magic Ring.[C]
I.
OH, had I the ring which the Talmud says
The Prince of Sages wore,
I’d flash on thy soul its magic rays,
And all mystery there explore!
II.
There would be no secret, dark, ill-boding,
But my mind should read aright;
No nameless horror forever goading,—
As vague as the visions of night.